BTW: I Love You

But, as Maddy walked into the bathroom to wash and then scouted the bedroom for her discarded clothing, all the questions she yearned to ask Rye King about his strangely barren home, about his past, about his present—and the reasons why he’d given her so much and taken so little—crowded into her head like corn kernels popping on a hot stove.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘COULD I ask you a question?’ Maddy kept her eyes on the simple meal of scrambled eggs on toast Rye had rustled up.

She heard the clink of his knife and fork and looked up to find him watching her. She tried not to fidget or feel intimidated. She’d waited a decent amount of time before giving in to her curiosity. But she simply wasn’t enough of a guy to let this one go.

‘Sure,’ he replied, but she could hear the slight edge in his voice. ‘What do you want to know?’

It was hardly a fulsome invitation. The question got caught in her throat.

Spit it out, Mads. You’re entitled to ask one stupid question.

The man had been inside her, for goodness’ sake. He’d licked her to orgasm. More than once. Maybe it was a girl thing, but curiosity didn’t have to be bad. And, frankly, after the silence that had stretched out between them ever since she’d ventured into the kitchen to find him cooking their meal, she wasn’t sure she could swallow another bite until she got at least one piece of popcorn out of her head.

‘Is this your house?’

His eyebrows lifted.

‘It’s just … it doesn’t seem to suit you,’ she rushed on, feeling foolish when his forehead creased. How would she know what suited him?

‘That’s the question?’ He gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Seriously?’

‘Well, yes.’ Some of the tension eased out of her shoulders. ‘What did you think I was going to ask?’

He leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs out and drummed the fingers of one hand on the table. The considering look he sent her made her cheeks heat a little. Why did she feel like a particularly rare amoeba under a microscope?

‘I thought you were going to ask what everyone asks,’ he said.

‘Which is?’

‘How I got to be a cripple.’

The blunt statement threw her for a moment. Until she remembered. Her gaze flicked to his thigh. ‘Oh, you mean your limp.’

He chuckled, but without bitterness. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on the table. ‘Don’t you want to know how I messed up my leg?’

‘Not particularly,’ she said staunchly. ‘It sounds like it’s a sore subject.’

He barked out a laugh. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

She winced, mortified, as she realised what she’d said. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make fun of your injury.’ She lurched up, began piling their plates. ‘Why don’t I wash up and get going?’

‘Sit down.’ His hand covered hers where it gripped the plate. ‘It’s okay.’ His thumb stroked the back of her hand. ‘You didn’t offend me. I’m far too sensitive about the stupid thing, anyway.’

She sat down, sighed, letting him link his fingers with hers. ‘I tend to speak before I think. Steve hated it.’

‘Who’s Steve?’ he asked, lifting her fingers and kissing the knuckles.

‘My ex.’ She tugged her hand away, surprised by the thump of her heartbeat at the absent gesture.

A slow suggestive smile curved his lips as he regarded her with an unwavering gaze. ‘Your ex, the moron?’

Heat stung her nape and throbbed in her nether regions as she recalled his earlier remark in the bathroom about her past boyfriends—and exactly how he had remedied the problem. ‘Um … yes … that would be Steve.’

She stood, took the plates again, his husky laughter making her feel hot and achy and a little embarrassed. No-strings flings clearly took a bit of getting used to. ‘I really should get going. I’ve got the early shift tomorrow.’

Her wild, wanton, reckless fling was over and it was way past time she went home. After everything that had happened today, it would be a miracle if she managed to fall asleep before midnight.

‘When does your lifeguard shift start?’ he asked as she put the plates in the sink with a clatter.

‘I haven’t got any more lifeguard shifts. Tomorrow’s the last day of the season.’

‘So what shift were you talking about?’

She switched on the hot tap, confused by his sudden desire to talk. Wasn’t all this information supposed to be out of bounds? ‘My waitressing shift at the beach café.’

‘You work at the café? On Wildwater Bay?’

She turned, leaned against the sink. He sounded astonished. ‘That’s right.’

He got up and crossed to her, brushing against her to switch off the tap. ‘So how many times has Phil hit on you, then?’

‘You know Phil?’ How strange. She’d never seen Rye in the café, she would definitely have remembered.

‘Yeah, I know Phil. And exactly how much of a flirt he is.’ For a second she thought she detected something a little off in his tone, but then discarded the idea. Why would he care about Phil and her?

‘So, has he talked you into bed yet?’ he asked.

She tensed as heat rocketed up her throat. ‘No.’ That wasn’t just off, it was totally out of order. What right did he have to ask her a question like that? And in that accusatory tone? ‘He’s my boss; I would never sleep with my boss.’ She stopped. Why was she justifying herself? ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

She hated that she sounded so lame—and that the question had made her feel dirty.

She stepped past him. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Hang on a minute.’ He grasped her arm, holding her in place. ‘There’s no need to get upset. It was a valid question.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said, tugging on her arm and getting more outraged by the second.

How could she have exposed herself to this? When they’d jumped each other this afternoon, she’d never considered he might not respect her afterwards.

He had no right to probe into her sex life, just because she’d done exactly what he’d done. She hadn’t thought less of him for his actions, why should he think less of her? The double standard sucked. But far worse was the humiliation that lay just beneath. She had nothing whatsoever to feel humiliated about. She was a single consenting adult who could decide to sleep with anyone she chose. But the memory of how she’d let him bring her to orgasm—countless times—made her feel defenceless. What exactly had he been thinking while he was pleasuring her so efficiently? That she was a tart?

‘Phil’s an operator,’ he said, as if he were being perfectly reasonable. ‘And I know exactly how he operates.’ His eyes flicked down her frame. ‘You would be fair game.’

‘This isn’t about Phil,’ she said, the choked feeling in her throat making it hard to speak. ‘It’s been nice, Mr King, but it’s obviously time for me to go.’

He swore softly. ‘Don’t start with the Mr King again or you’re going to annoy me.’

‘Really?’ she said, desperate to keep her shredded dignity intact. ‘Well, that will make two of us then, won’t it?’ She stalked through the kitchen doorway, strode down the hallway.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Madeleine?’

She heard the arrogant tone as she wrenched open the front door.

Then spotted her bike, lying in a heap by the front steps, and stared up at the stars winking in the sky.

Drat.

She swung round, her back ramrod straight. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, observing her with mocking indulgence.

‘Do you mind giving me a lift home?’ she asked in a clipped voice, hoping to telegraph her disapproval.

‘Not at all,’ he replied, pushing away from the wall. His stiff leg did nothing to lessen the insolent way he strolled towards her.

It took ten minutes for them to wrestle the carcass of her bike into the boot of his snazzy little sports car. And twenty minutes more to make the silent drive to her granny’s cottage on the other side of the Bay.

Maddy fumed every single inch of the way—and kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. She waited for an apology, but it didn’t come. By the time he braked in front of the tiny one-bedroom cottage her resentment had reached fever pitch.

Sleeping with a man she didn’t know had been foolhardy. But she thought she’d gone into this adventure with her eyes open. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been open enough. What was supposed to have been a sexually liberating experience had turned into exactly the opposite. He’d made her feel cheap.

But what bugged her the most was that for a second it had actually mattered to her what he thought. He wasn’t her friend. He was her one-night lover. But what was meant to be an anonymous fling didn’t seem so anonymous any more.

She gripped the door handle. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ And the multiple orgasm, she wanted to add with as much sarcasm as she could muster, but figured he had an ego big enough to take it as a compliment.

His arm shot across her to grab the door handle and hold it closed. ‘Calm down.’

Her head whipped round. ‘I am calm.’

‘Yeah, I noticed,’ he said, the planes and angles of his face tense in the moonlight. ‘I have a question for you before you go.’

She stopped struggling with the door handle. ‘If it’s about my sex life, I’m not answering it.’ On that she was absolutely clear. He’d humiliated her enough for one evening.

‘Why won’t you sleep with your boss? Did Phil do something he shouldn’t have?’

The audacious question was such a shock, she answered it without thinking. ‘Of course not. Phil and I are friends. I just … I would never sleep with anyone who’s employing me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s unethical. And …’ she sputtered ‘… and incredibly tacky.’

She knew she sounded prissy. But she wasn’t about to go into the sordid details of her childhood—and the real reason the thought of workplace sex made her nauseous. This conversation had already got far too personal. ‘Can I go now?’ she said, making it very clear it wasn’t a request.

‘Sure,’ he said, finally letting go of the handle.

She leapt out of the car, determined not to look back.

‘Goodbye, Maddy. And thanks for an incredible evening.’

The statement sounded genuine—and final—and she turned back without intending to.

He shot her a casual salute. Was that supposed to be ironic? But, as the car sped off down the road, the tail lights disappearing into the darkness, Maddy felt the brutal pulse of heat at her core and the strange little hiccup in her heartbeat. And despised herself for it.

She walked to the cottage, took the key from under the eaves of the porch entrance, determined to wipe the pointless spurt of melancholy at his departure from her consciousness. But, as she shut the door and leant back against it, glad to be back in the homely surroundings, she noticed the vacant spot in her hallway where she parked her bike. Her head dropped back against the door with an audible thud.

‘Damn.’

She hadn’t seen the last of Rye King after all.

Rye braked at the junction and swore. Her bike was still in the boot of the car. He shifted into reverse, looked over his shoulder. Then stopped. And swung back round.

He couldn’t go back, not yet. Everything was too damn close to the surface. He’d behaved like a jerk back at the house. The mention of her former boyfriend and then Phil had made something coil in his stomach that he didn’t understand. And suddenly he’d had to know whether she’d slept with his friend. He’d handled the situation badly, though. He could see that now. Accusing her when all he’d really meant to do was ask.

But why had he been so determined to know?

He rubbed his thigh, the muscles cramping, shifted back into first and accelerated.

Probably temporary insanity, brought on by extreme stress. Bringing her to orgasm, watching her come apart in his arms had been incredible—but rediscovering all the wonders of a woman’s body had brought with it a painful side effect. He’d spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening hard as a rock. And he suspected he had a sleepless night ahead of him, lying in a bed still infused with her spicy exotic scent.

The desire to bury himself deep inside her had been all but unstoppable and, while he’d welcomed the pain in many ways because it signified the return of his libido, by the time she’d strolled into the kitchen and he’d listened to her putting on her freshly laundered clothes while he scrambled eggs, his control and his willpower had pretty much reached breaking point.

He hadn’t been in the mood for polite conversation. So, when she’d asked him that innocuous question, he’d had to stop himself from snapping her head off. He’d been sure he knew what was coming.

When he’d re-entered London society after the accident, he’d been brutally aware of the hushed whispers when he entered a room, the furtive glances at the sight of his ruined leg. Women in particular had tiptoed around the subject of his disability, trying to make him feel better by either not referring to it or referring to it all the time.

He’d expected Maddy to be like all the rest.

But she’d surprised him again. She’d genuinely forgotten about it. Her astonished response to his snarled accusation hadn’t only been refreshing, it had been a revelation. Forcing him to face the fact that, after six long months, instead of dwelling on what he had lost, maybe it was about time he started making the most of what he had. The fact that, since Maddy Westmore had stepped into his life, he now had much more than he thought, hadn’t escaped him either.

But the minute that bolt had hit him, another had struck him right afterwards. He still wanted her. And he didn’t know how to deal with that.

He didn’t rely on other people—ever—especially women. He didn’t ask for or expect anything and if they asked for anything from him in return, he usually bolted straight for the door.

He wasn’t interested in anything serious. Anything long-term. And he didn’t want that with Maddy either. He hated that choking, claustrophobic feeling that came with any hint of commitment. A lot of things had changed since the accident, but not that. He needed his freedom. And he always would.

But how did you ask a woman you barely knew if they would be interested in a purely sexual relationship? He’d been trying to get his head around that one when the thought of Maddy and Phil working in close proximity had sent him crashing through another barrier.

It wasn’t that he cared about who Maddy had been with before him. It couldn’t be. He didn’t do jealousy. And he wasn’t possessive with women. He expected them to be faithful for the brief time they were together, but he always wore condoms so he didn’t take any interest in their sexual history.

Turning into the driveway of Trewan Manor, he eased up the handbrake, switched off the ignition and stared into the darkness.

The need to know about Maddy and Phil had to be another by-product of the accident and the trauma afterwards. His pride and his confidence had been shattered in the last six months and it would take more than one night to rebuild it.

He dug his thumb into his injured muscles to ease the painful cramp—while keying the beach café’s number into the hands-free phone on the car’s dash. First things first. Before he saw Maddy again and figured out a way of engineering her back into his bed, he had to address a more pressing problem.

Phil answered on the second ring.

‘Phil, it’s Rye.’

‘How’s things, stranger?’ Phil’s voice had the easy familiarity of long-time friendship. ‘Still hiding out at Hell Hall?’

‘Yeah,’ Rye said drolly, not rising to the bait. ‘I need to drop by the café tomorrow morning,’ he continued, determined to head off yet another conversation about how he needed to get out more. ‘What time’s the early shift start?’

He wanted to be sure Maddy would be there.

‘The breakfast service starts at nine,’ Phil said.

Rye tapped the steering wheel, surprised by the little spurt of anticipation. ‘Great, I’ll see you at …’

‘Wait a sec,’ Phil cut in, suspicion sharpening his voice. ‘What’s the hurry, all of a sudden?’

‘I’ve got a bike that belongs to one of your employees I need to drop off.’

‘What employee?’

‘Madeleine Westmore.’

‘How do you know Maddy?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Rye stated flatly, not appreciating the third degree—or the tiny tinge of guilt.

Phil swore on the other end of the line. ‘Please tell me you’re not treating Maddy to the Ryan King Do ‘em and Dump ‘em routine.’

Rye’s temper sparked. He’d coined that insulting phrase fifteen years ago, when he’d been sixteen, had turbo-charged hormones and thought boasting about all the women he got into the sack made him a man. ‘We’re not in secondary school any more, Phil.’

‘Too right we’re not,’ Phil interrupted forcefully. ‘Leave her alone, Rye; she doesn’t play those kind of games.’

‘What games?’ Rye demanded, something sour settling in his gut. Since when had free-wheeling Phil become the protective sort? Had Maddy lied to him about the two of them?

‘You know what games,’ Phil said, then sighed. ‘Look, mate, she’s a good friend and a great waitress. She works really hard and she got dumped on big time last year by some creep called Steve. The last thing she needs is a smooth-talking, over-sexed big shot from London using her for sport.’

Rye would have laughed at Phil’s insulting assessment of him—the over-sexed reference being particularly ironic—if the sour something in his gut hadn’t been rising up his throat like bile. ‘What is this? Are you trying to stake your own claim?’

‘No. It’s nothing like that.’ Phil sounded genuinely shocked at the accusation. ‘She’s not interested in me. And, even if she were, she doesn’t do sex with the boss. Ever. She has a rule about it.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’ Rye shouted, the bile threatening to choke him.

‘Because she told me,’ Phil shot right back. ‘She was a little drunk and we were—’ He paused. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point. What did she say when you told her you own this place? I can’t believe she would …’

‘I’m not sleeping with her.’ Not right this minute, anyway.

Rye ignored the tug of guilt. Maybe he should have mentioned that he owned the café, but it hadn’t seemed all that relevant.

He’d inherited all the property along the Bay after the death of his grandfather ten years ago, when he’d still been travelling round the world as a surf bum living off the prize money from competitions and any instructor work he could hustle. After the funeral, he’d spent two months refurbishing the café, opening a surf hire shop next door and blowing the rest of his inheritance rehabbing the old Victorian guest house on the point and reopening it as a boutique hotel to cater to North Cornwall’s young, rich and sporty summer crowd. Then he’d hired Phil to manage the café and surf shop and Tony, another of his old friends from secondary school, to manage Surf Central, and got the hell out of Cornwall for the second time in his life.

That small taste of empire-building had planted a seed, though, that had blossomed into dissatisfaction as he’d back-packed his way to Hawaii. He’d got as far as California before he’d admitted that his nomadic, shoestring existence didn’t have the cachet at twenty-one that it had when he’d first run away from his grandfather’s oppressive rules and regulations at seventeen. So he’d made his way back to London, remortgaged Trewan Manor, arranged a loan on the Wildwater Bay businesses and started making careful investments in similar extreme sports enterprises around the globe.

The adrenalin kick of riding the perfect wave had gradually been replaced by the more intense and sustained high of managing his fledgling business empire and watching it grow and expand.

He’d worked hard to build King Xtreme into a thriving multinational concern. And, yeah, maybe he’d played hard as well, bedding a string of beautiful women the world over and turning his Kensington penthouse into the party capital of London society during the winter months. But his sexual conquests had never been indiscriminate, or nearly as prolific as the press liked to maintain—and, while he’d had a well-earned reputation as an adrenalin junkie, he’d never used drugs or alcohol to feed the high. Maintaining his health and his fitness had been an important part of his brand. Until the accident.

So he didn’t deserve Phil’s scorn. Or this guilt trip.

‘Maddy will find out that I own the café tomorrow.’ He could sort out any hang-ups she might have about sleeping with the boss then. He didn’t anticipate it being a big hurdle, though, not after the way she had responded to his touch today. And, anyhow, strictly speaking, he wasn’t her boss. Phil was.

‘Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Phil said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. The breakfast rush is over around eleven. Come by then and I can take time out to show you the books.’

‘I’ll be there at nine-thirty,’ he said and disconnected the call.

He wasn’t waiting till eleven to see Maddy again. Plus he had no desire to see the books. He had accountants to do that sort of thing. And he trusted Phil. Implicitly.

Just not with Maddy.

CHAPTER NINE

‘THIS morning’s breakfast special is sweet waffles with crispy bacon and maple syrup.’

Maddy waited patiently for the elderly couple to make up their minds, then jotted down their order. Pasting on what she hoped was a perky smile, she refilled their coffee cups. ‘That’ll be a few minutes. Feel free to help yourself to newspapers and magazines while you wait.’

Tucking her pad away, she slipped through the swinging doors into the kitchen and pinned the only order of the morning on the board.

‘That’s it?’ said Guy, their breakfast chef, as he whisked the tab off the board. ‘I might as well have stayed in bed.’

‘I wish I had.’ Maddy gave the small of her back a rub and glanced at the clock. She still had five hours to go on her shift and her legs already felt like limp noodles.

Yesterday’s unscheduled exercise, both in bed and out, would have been enough to knock her out. But when you factored in the restless night she’d spent while a string of X-rated erotic memories played in her head—and the three-mile hike to the café this morning—she was officially dead on her feet.

‘I can see that.’ Guy scanned her face as he cracked eggs into the mixer. He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Hot date, eh?’

The suggestive comment had a couple of the most lurid memories popping into her head, in full senso-vision. Guy’s eagle eyes narrowed as the hot flush scorched her throat.

He laughed. ‘So little Maddy finally got her mojo back last night.’

‘Get lost, Guy.’ She threw the words over her shoulder, his amused chuckle drowned out by the whirl of the mixer.

She slammed out of the kitchen door, only to spot her mojo standing in the café doorway. Her stride faltered as the flush burned her scalp. What was he doing here? And why did he have to look so gorgeous?

His bronze hair had streaks of gold she hadn’t noticed last night, and fell across his brow in windblown waves as those crystal-blue eyes fixed on her face.

His eyes flicked down her figure and the flush raced into her cheeks.

‘Hello, Madeleine.’ The innocuous pleasantry spoken in that low husky voice had a dangerous effect on her thigh muscles.

‘Hello.’ She fumbled a menu from the end of the bar and directed him to a table. He’d probably just come for breakfast. No need to panic. Yet.

‘I didn’t come here to eat,’ he said, stepping towards her.

He stood too close, that clean scent of pine forests and man making the torrid memories all the more vivid.

‘So why did you come?’ she said, more breathlessly than intended.

‘Your bike.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ Why did the knowledge bring with it that silly spurt of melancholy again? ‘Thanks.’